


Honey for breakfast

by shipping_forecast



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/F, Femlock, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Johnlock - Freeform, Smut, Sussex, Winter, johnlock christmas exchange, johnlock secret santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 06:34:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5529569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipping_forecast/pseuds/shipping_forecast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock have rented a cottage in Sussex for Christmas.</p><p>"The wood floor is cold against my bare feet and there is frost on the windowpane. I look out at the snowy fields beyond while I wait for the water to boil. It seems to have snowed more last night. I return to bed with tea and toast with honey and icy toes that I press against Sherlock’s calf. She squeals and tries to pull her leg to safety but I tackle her, pressing my nose against her neck and my feet between hers."</p><p>Domestic winter fluff (and a bit of smut) for RoseInMyHand for the 2015 Johnlock Christmas Exchange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honey for breakfast

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RoseinMyHand](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseinMyHand/gifts).



My nose is cold.  
  
That is the first thing I notice as I struggle awake. The rest of my body is warm, cocooned as it is beneath the comforter with Sherlock lying half atop of me. She shifts in her sleep and her hair tickles my ear. I turn my head and bury my cold nose in her curls, hoping to warm it. Sherlock grumbles something and her right hand tightens around my breast, which she has once again sought out in her sleep. I still my involuntary shudder. I’m glad she’s sleeping soundly and I’m in no hurry to wake her. I move her hand gently and slip back down into sleep.  
  
When I open my eyes again, it is to her looking back at me. She is propped up on one hand, drawing lazy circles on my belly with the other. “Good morning,” I mumble. She smiles and dips her head to kiss me. “Morning.”  
  
I stretch, then pull her down into my arms. “Did you sleep well?”  
She nods. “Unexpectedly so. It appears to be quite late.” It is hard to tell by the light filtering through the curtains, but I don't doubt she's right. For once, though, we have nowhere else to be.  
  
Her hand wanders up to cup my left breast, fingers circling my nipple. I shudder and deepen our kiss. She teases, almost touching, moves away again. Then a quick brush across my nipple. I gasp. She smiles against my mouth and breaks our kiss, pushes up my t-shirt, breathes on the other nipple, darts out her tongue to lick. She wets her fingertips and brushes over my left nipple again while she sucks on the other. My hand is in her hair, and I can’t help but tighten it. She gasps in response and slides her hand down my belly, past my hips and under the waistband of my pyjamas, a faint scratch of fingernails, the pressure of her palm against the curve of my thigh. I buck my hips as she touches me, ghosting over my clit in a maddening tease, dipping inside me and returning wet, rubbing me gently between her fingers, then faster and faster, a hint of teeth on my breast and her twitching wetness against my leg as I come with a cry.  
  
I pull her back up and kiss her, breathless and smiling, holding her tight through my aftershocks. My hand travels down her back to cup her buttock. I run my fingernails across it and she gasps. I move my hand back up, pull off her t-shirt and flip her over, spreading her out beneath me.  
She is beautiful in the dim winter light, white soft skin and a dark shock of hair spread out on the pillow, her full lips parted and her eyes shining.  
  
I kiss her forehead, her eyelids, her neck. Tease an earlobe between my teeth, run my fingers through her hair. She draws me down into a kiss, heated, impatient, open-mouthed. Her breasts fit perfectly in my hands and I cover the left one with my palm, kneading it gently. She whines as I break the kiss but soon starts squirming as I cover her in licks and kisses, down from her mouth to her neck to her breast. I kiss her belly, nibble at her sides. She giggles, breathless. I kiss her again, on her belly button, and down, further down, until I’m between her legs, nosing at the short dark curls, inhaling her scent. “Please,” she whimpers, and I give her a quick lick, then blow gently onto her clit. My tongue dips deeper and I lick and suck at her, my hand pressed against her lower belly, until she is writhing beneath me, hands fisted into the sheets, my name mixed in with broken gasps and whimpers, bucking up against my mouth and shuddering as she comes.

**************  


Later, I make my way to the kitchen for breakfast. The wood floor is cold against my bare feet and there is frost on the windowpane. I look out at the snowy fields beyond while I wait for the water to boil. It seems to have snowed more last night.  
I return to bed with tea and toast with honey and icy toes that I press against Sherlock’s calf. She squeals and tries to pull her leg to safety but I tackle her, pressing my nose against her neck and my feet between hers. 

After breakfast, I decide it’s time to go exploring. “Can’t we stay in bed?” she complains. “It’s cold.”  
I tug at her hands. “Come on, now, before we lose the last of the light. A walk will do us both good.”  
It does. The cold air bites our cheeks and colours them red, our breath rises in clouds of mist. We walk down the country lane, then turn to follow a small path back through the fields. It has snowed since someone last went this way, and the fresh powdery snow rises in small puffs of glittering crystals as we walk.  
  
I had been worried Sherlock might get bored here – we both had, if her complaints were any indication – but she is absorbed in the landscape, eyes flitting back and forth across the fields, identifying animal tracks in the snow, pointing out a robin in the hedgerows, telling me about the intelligence of birds and tool use in corvids. Of course, I realise, her parents live in the countryside. It is hard to imagine her without London, she seems like a city girl through and through, but she must have roamed the fields and woods around their house when she wasn’t at school.  
  
Our path takes us back to the cottage from the other side. We walk along the fence and I watch her try to puzzle out the small mounds of snow at the back of the garden. “Beehives!” she exclaims, just as I’m about to help her out. “The owners keep bees,” I tell her. “In summer, that meadow is full of wildflowers.”  
  
We get to the gate and I scoop a handful of snow off the gatepost. “Don’t you dare!” Sherlock warns, but it’s too late; my snowball hits her shoulder. She gasps in mock outrage and tries to stick a handful of snow down the back of my coat, but I dodge her, running through the untouched snow until a snowball hits me squarely in the back. I stop for more ammunition but she catches up with me and sends me tumbling into the snow. We wrestle, giggling, until we’re both out of breath and covered in snow. “Truce?” I say, panting. “Truce,” she agrees and ruffles my hair with a snowy glove.

**************  


We have dinner in front of the fire in the sitting room. I insisted on a proper Christmas dinner, even if most of it’s from Marks and Spencer’s, but Mrs Hudson’s made us a small Christmas pudding soaked in plenty of brandy and Sherlock pulls a bottle of wine from somewhere.  
  
Afterwards, we leave the dishes on the coffee table and move down to the rug with our glasses. I’m leaning against the side of an armchair with Sherlock’s head in my lap. I play lazily with her hair. The food and wine and warmth have made me drowsy and I just sit there quietly, my head against the armrest of the chair, and watch the snow fall in the small cone of light outside our window. Sherlock is quiet as well, sipping her wine, staring into the crackling fire.  
  
“I think I’d like to come here in the summer,” she says eventually, turning her head to look at me.  
I look down at her. “I think I’d like that.” I can see her now, sitting at the back of the garden, barefoot and with unbrushed hair, watching the bees come and go, probably taking notes on their dances. Their quiet buzzing, the smell of warm grass and wildflowers… so different from summer in London. I would like that, I decide. I like how she looks here, how she relaxes, how she sleeps through the night, her appetite.  
  
I lean down to kiss her. I will talk to the owners about renting the cottage for the summer, I decide. I can imagine long summer evenings here with her, sunny days and short showers and warm nights, one of those neverending summers you have when you're a child. But that can wait. Right now it is winter and it is snowing outside and I have her in my arms. And tomorrow we will wake up with cold noses, and there will be more snow and laughter and honey for breakfast.


End file.
